


The Sexual Awakening of Sherlock Holmes

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bath Sex, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Demisexuality, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Sex Positions, Oral Sex, Picnics, Pining, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Rimming, Seaside, Vacation, Victorian Attitudes, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 21:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17885954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: Sherlock Holmes might have happily lived his whole life in ascetic solitude, had he not encountered Doctor John Watson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is COMPLETE but is being posted in installments. New chapter every Wednesday and Friday. If you prefer to wait until the fic is posted in its entirety to read it, bookmark/subscribe and come on back on March 22nd. The rating and tags are for the later chapters (smut begins in Chapter Four).

My parents bestowed enough affection for me to thrive, as evidenced by my being here to write these words, but not much more. I believe they raised me and my brother to be, from the youngest age possible, as self-sufficient as anyone from our class of society could be, to not need anything from anyone else (especially from them), to find everything we needed to lead full and productive lives inside ourselves. They aimed to make us into autodidacts who could fill in the gaps in our worldliness for ourselves when our tutors’ duties were over. Although Mycroft and I fulfilled this wish, each in our own way, neither of us turned out how I suspect our parents envisioned, which is why we do not speak of them, and why I suspect they paid us the same courtesy in the years between our leaving home and their leaving this world.

The knowledge and independent thought that was so important for us to possess was nourished by a vast library, which grew so large in my younger years that it expanded beyond our father’s study and into the adjacent room. This was a boon, as it meant that our access to those books could happen at any time of day, not only those times when our father was not occupying his study.

Those books were invaluable to forming my character: Anatomy and zoological texts facilitated experiments I performed with small wild animals I caught. Botany texts were brimming with information about the potential, often the _nefarious_ potential, of every plant known to man. Curiosity about those books which were in French kept me diligent in the study of that language, to the delight of my tutor – she had no notion that my devotion to the language owed nearly all to the burning desire to comprehend the work of Antoine Lavoisier, known by then as the Father of Chemistry. Shakespeare and the Bible I absorbed as well, because their influence on civilisation was so vast that I thought it vital to be able to recognise that influence wherever it may manifest.

And so on. None of this should come as a surprise to anyone who has read the tales of my exploits dramatised (and too often romanticised) by Doctor John Watson. But there was one shelf of books which was to have a different but equally powerful lifelong influence on me, an influence that is only hinted at in those stories devoured by _Strand_ readers. This was the shelf where sat books on hygiene, health, and social conduct.

I discovered this shelf (that is, I became tall enough to reach it with the aid of a chair) when I was ten years old. I took them down and sat with them in the leather wingback chair the same as I had every book before, but when I realised what these books were concerned with, I was so startled that I immediately climbed up and put them back, terrified that my parents would find out I had looked at them (I was aware by that age of telltale signs of interference, such as the presences or absence of dust upon an object).

This distress about what I had found in that book was rooted in an observation I had made one day at the breakfast table a few years before, about something I had seen two dogs doing in the fields behind the house – whereas typically during meals my parents would listen with tolerant expressions whilst I babbled about everything I had been learning and found fascinating at the present moment, when I mentioned the entangled beasts, they shushed me, and warned me not to repeat what I had said to anyone else.

Months later, snooping in my father’s study, I had found in a drawer a postcard featuring an illustration of two people engaged in something not dissimilar to what the dogs had been doing, and though I did not know what this activity was, the shame of having been silenced at the breakfast table carried over to what I was holding in my hand.

Between that discovery and my reaching for the hygiene books on the shelf, I had collected a few other details, owing mainly to a knowledgeable boy who lived on a farm a few miles down the road. He would thrill and repulse and fascinate the other children with tales of things he’d seen, but descriptions of the genitals of various livestock was his most popular material.

After putting those startling books back on the shelf, I had supper and went to bed, but I could not sleep: the books, I realised, were the key to piecing together that sparse knowledge I had of the science of human life. If I read them, I would no longer depend on peer anecdotes or stray sightings; I would have complete understanding. And complete understanding was already of paramount importance to me, even at that young age.

So a few days following, during the hours in which I was least likely to be sought out for tutoring or meals, I returned to the library, climbed up onto the chair, and took down the books again.

The first thing that struck me about these books was their indisputable authoritativeness. Just reading the preface of one, I got the distinct impression that I was about to embark upon a journey that would reward me with not just knowledge, but _wisdom_. My heart raced with the anticipation of unlocking all these secrets.

The deeper I dove into these books, however, the more despondent I became.

It did not all happen at once. To begin with, I had not every hour of the day to myself, and these books were vast, one of them running to seven hundred pages. I dared not look at them when anyone else was in the library, or might suddenly appear. Additionally, even in my unscheduled hours, I had other interests, and continued to learn all there was to know about chemistry, geology, music, and certain languages, sometimes from books, sometimes from outdoors exploration, sometimes from knowledgeable (and patient) adults. And if the family went on holiday, our library was of course left behind entirely.

Thus, the knowledge gleaned from the health and hygiene books permeated two years or so of my life, coinciding (perhaps unfortunately) with the first stirrings of adolescence in my mind and body. When that process began, I desperately attempted to allay my new confusions with these books, but more often than not, reading them made things worse. The anatomical diagrams and the factual, sterile descriptions of bodily functions were enlightening, but that information comprised only a sliver of these texts. The rest was concerned with more nebulous information about such things as the powerful reciprocation of influence between the reproductive organs and the brain (and other organs as well, but the brain was the one I was most concerned with – even in my youngest days I considered everything below my neck to be an appendix). I was fascinated by and terrified of the explanations of how excitements of the reproductive organs affected the brain. My organs, the books warned, caused libidinous thoughts, which if exercised would pollute my mind and drain my vital powers.

_It is of the utmost importance to retain these vital powers_ (one such preface assured me), _as the fiery ardour of the patriot, the intense ambition of an enthusiast, the inspiration that influences noble deeds of valor, all spring from the power of virile manhood. The proper preservation of fecundating fluid is necessary for the glory of such a vigorous body and mind. Masturbation results in a frightful loss of these powers._

Funnily enough, I had not known what masturbation was, or how it was conducted, until it was laid out for me in these books. But in the same breath as it was explained, it was warned against: if I were to make a habit of “self-pollution” I would become lazy, my muscles would weaken, I would be tormented by tremors and terrors, my organs would cease to function properly, my powers of perception and reflection would deteriorate, and I would pass quickly into miserable dotage and idiocy. And this was to say nothing of the fires of perdition that awaited me for having indulged in such a damnable sin.

Social vice – that is, sexual congress – was extensively warned against as well, but it seemed that the solitary variety was much more pernicious, and of particular concern to someone so young as myself, who of course had much easier and more frequent access to the latter than then former. I read this sentence with horror: _Many physicians of high authority have maintained that two thirds of the diseases to which the human race is liable have their origin in onanism and masturbation_.

When I was away from the books, and better able to reflect on them, it all seemed odd to me – why would we be created this way? Why were we so susceptible to vices which were so deleterious to our person? And why would only the sexual need be so harmful, and not others? After all, when we are hungry, we eat, because it is necessary to eat; when we are thirsty, our bodies are telling us that we need drink. So why, if we have a different kind of hunger or thirst in our bodies, do we acknowledge it at our peril? (Being young and not wise, this contradiction did not prompt me to question, or disregard entirely, the advice against self-pollution; it served more to discourage me from eating and drinking when necessary, as I assumed that those urges must be overstated by our bodily organs as well. This became a lifelong habit to which I still cling, especially in times of excitement or distress.)

All I knew at the time was that I wished to avoid such a fate, and I made careful notes of which habits were healthful and which were not: to prevent temptations from creeping up, and also to prevent involuntary night losses, I should make a habit of bathing in cold water, washing with a stiff brush and drying with a coarse towel, going to the gymnasium, climbing, swinging, running, horseback riding...I got the idea that essentially I must exhaust myself daily, to leave no energy in my body to devote to solitary vice.

Risky behaviors to avoid included sleeping upon feathers, spending too much time in overheated rooms, waltzing, gossip, gambling, reading novels, the theatre, lying on ones back (or on or one’s front), heavy bed-clothing...the list was extensive, and some of these things seemed difficult to avoid. Or if not difficult, undesirable. The theatre? Was a desire to see a performance of _Rigoletto_ symptomatic of bodily impurity?

These books all agreed, however, that the solitary indulgence which the above behaviours resulted in was a wholly unnatural, degrading, injurious, destructive activity, and the primary reason why the youth of the day were delicate and enfeebled, with sunken eyes, blanched cheeks, withered hands, and emaciated frame. Looking at my own pale, thin body in the mirror when undressing at night, I saw not all, but some of these qualities, and was repulsed by myself, even if I had not been indulging in the dreaded pastime.

For here I must tell you something odd, and perhaps funny: I was never so obsessed with the act of self-abuse as I was when I was reading the books which so fiercely warned me against it. When I was away from the library, visiting distant relatives or on some other sort of holiday, I did not think much about the practice at all. Occasionally my organ would become stiff, and always for seemingly no reason, but I was usually occupied with some adventure or study which I preferred not to interrupt, and then my body would calm down on its own. I waited for “impure thoughts” and “prurient desires” to overcome me, as the books warned, but they rarely troubled me, even if I forgot to sleep on my side, or washed with a soft cloth instead of a coarse one. It was only when I was in the habit of reading those particular texts that my thoughts turned to that loathsome activity.

As I made my way yet further into these books, new fears overcame me, specifically in regards to the female sex, and the expectations for my interactions with them. My parents were not at all affectionate with each other, and whilst certain sections of the books made clear that my parents must have engaged in sexual congress at least twice in order to become the authors of myself and my brother, they had given me no idea that men and women were meant to interact with each other with anything other than icy courtesy.

But whole sections of these books, after warning against lasciviousness of any kind, presented detailed information about how to ensure that one’s lasciviousness was successful and fruitful. One such chapter began by asserting: _Proper, sensible marriage is always beneficial to direct the energies. Both male and female reach their highest development as husband and wife, father and mother_. I supposed I could accept this idea of directing one’s otherwise dangerous energies correctly. After all, there was a difference between learning to box and recklessly picking fights with strangers. So I proceeded, wading into a mire of baffling guidelines.

Dozens of pages were devoted to the exact physical dimensions of a suitable wife, some specifications of which also depended on the man in question. For example: _The length of the neck should be proportionately less in the male than in the female, because the dependence of the mental system on the vital one is naturally connected with the shorter courses of the vessels of the neck_. I imagined my parents at some long-distant time measuring each other’s necks, and thus determining that their courtship was an appropriate one. It seemed as ridiculous as the idea of their being affectionate with each other.

A thousand more specifications accompanied the one concerning neck length, detailing which partners were suitable or unsuitable based on one’s disposition, form, height, corpulence, excitability, habits, and morals. Some of this advice was less than clear: _When a female with a low womb is married to a very masculine man, they must correct the difficulty by a means that may seem obvious, or they will have no offspring._ I can tell you that it was not obvious to me at all. A low womb? A very masculine man? How to identify these accurately?

_Two people with blue eyes should not marry, as the children have a tendency to blindness_. This gave me grave concern about the Scandinavian peoples, for whom (I knew from my readings on all the countries of the world) having blue eyes was as prevalent as having a nose or ears.

And it was not as if, once a person chose a suitable partner and entered into the sacrament of marriage, their troubles were over. Consummating a marriage was only the beginning of new complications to fret over.

 

_The sea air encourages vigorousness, but exposure to salt water militates fecundation._ My God, the infinite potential physiological incompatibilities were bad enough, but how were children born at all if there were in addition so many environmental factors which sought to thwart their conception? These advisements, by the way, ran in contradiction to warnings elsewhere that extramarital congress of any kind would surely result in the birth of a bastard.

_If sexual embraces are too frequent, the drain on the vital forces will be disastrous, and the resulting children will be feeble degenerates. But if these unions happen too infrequently, marital discord will be the inevitable result._ One book explained how maladies particular to the female sex, such as uterine epilepsy, hysterics, and nymphomania were cured by sexual intercourse – within the bounds of a sanctified marriage, of course. So it seemed that continence of the kind necessary for men, if they wished to retain their faculties, was the cause of numerous degenerative maladies in women.

Most frustrating of all, no exact guidelines were given as to the correct frequency. The book assured its readers that they, adults who were healthy and responsible enough for marriage, would be able to exercise good judgment in this matter, if only they made the effort. _A moderate amount of sexual indulgence, naturally conducted, is not injurious to husband or wife, but it is difficult to determine the exact limits of moderation_. Already in fear for my well-being when it came to solitary vice, the idea that a wrong guess about my future matrimonial life would have grave consequences was horrifying.

And all of this was _before_ I encountered the chapters on the effects of syphilis, canchroids, and gonorrhoea.

Having at last read every word of these books, I came to only one certain conclusion: that I must maintain my bodily integrity at any cost. And that, to me, meant a life of disciplined solitude. Rather than try to navigate these complex and mystifying requirements, perfect chastity of both mind and body seemed the plain and easy rule. I would continue to make careful habits of proper bodily maintenance, and eschew licentious exercises of the mind, and if I avoided marriage, I would not be obligated to puzzle out the precise amount of sexual indulgence to keep my organs intact and my mind sharp without driving some unfortunate woman to uterine epilepsy.

Thus determined, I carried on through adolescence and into adulthood – and found it hardly a challenge, being rarely drawn towards any sort of temptation. What baffled me were the peccadilloes of others, whether they be schoolmates, the subjects of town gossip, or heroes of history and literature. Once I came to understand that beneath the strictures of Victorian England bubbled lecherous deeds and devilish urges, it seemed that everyone around me was to some degree susceptible to vice, except myself.

At the time, I was certain that these unfortunate souls had brought themselves to ruin (or were in the process of bringing themselves to such) only because they had not the knowledge nor the discipline that I possessed. It took years and much study of human nature before I began to suspect that perhaps I was exceptional – that is, exceptional in yet another way besides the ones I’d already understood about myself. Perhaps I lacked an otherwise universal element, an urge which truly was irresistible to everyone else. I fear it is too late now to know whether my anxious readings of health and hygiene manuals caused my disinclination towards sexual indulgences, or whether this lack of inclination was inherent, thus making all the grim warnings I had absorbed superfluous.

What I can tell you is that as I grew to full manhood, I discovered that not everyone who indulged in vice (of whatever variety) became a hopeless wretch. A taste of alcohol, a pipeful of tobacco, these habits were too common among the most respectable of figures. After leaving home to attend university, the growing disconnect between what I had read and what I experienced prompted me to sample those two substances, and yes, narcotics as well (cocaine was introduced to me as a necessary pain reliever, but as is often the case, this led to that occasional recreational use which Watson found so abhorrent). Having made myself the subject of these experiments, I dispensed with any habit I saw as being only disadvantageous, but maintained some whose ill effects were outweighed by what I considered to be benefits.

And away from books obsessed with perversion, instead observing actual, functional society, I saw how the vast majority of men and women were not shambling degenerates whose vices had brought them to ruin, but sufficiently well-adjusted persons, each with a part to play in this world, cogs taking their place in the machinery of society. To be sure, a seamy underbelly pulsated below the surface, just off the high streets and beyond the drawing rooms, but life went on anyhow. I concluded, then, that just as the pleasures incident to eating are not its primary objective but merely incentive thereto, so was sexual pleasure merely an incentive towards marriage and parentage, which the vast majority of men and women seemed happy to play their part in submitting to (some more promptly than others).

Despite this growing understanding that having a libido need not be disastrous, that vice was not only routine, but more often than not downright banal, I continued to avoid sexual matters, due to an utter lack of interest in either the incentives or the inevitable results. Twice or thrice I found myself entertaining soft emotions for another at university, but such fleeting thoughts were as nothing before my iron determination. I crumpled those urges up like a blotted sheet of foolscap, treating them like the mistakes, the _accidents_ that they were. But when others revealed to me that they had not only entertained these feelings but had acted upon them, outside of strictly-regulated societal confines, and had emerged apparently unscathed, it further confirmed my conclusion that the warnings I had read in those books were pure nonsense.

But it mattered little to me by then whether damnation or syphilis awaited those who paid illicit tribute to Venus or not, and it wouldn’t have mattered all, except for my profession. Crime was what interested me, and to know everything there is to know about crime, one must understand every dark facet of human life. It became a point of pride to me, that I could investigate lurid matters without being biased by my own fears, jealousies, or sympathies. My closed heart knew no favouritism. I could also rest easy knowing I need not fear that any havoc might be wreaked on my mind or body by disease, by mercury treatments, or by – most insidious of all – erotic emotion.

Being as the sex drive is so powerful and consuming a force in a person, its absence leaves so much space inside those who lack it. For me, this space was devoted to my profession, to understanding and thwarting crime wherever possible. I excelled at what I did because I had the wherewithal to devote so much of myself to it, so much more than nearly any other person could. In fact, over time, I came to think of my celibacy as not merely instinctive but _noble_ , as carrying on the tradition of Galahad, of Joan of Arc, warriors whose blades struck true because they belonged to no one but the Creator. Of course, every man wishes to believe that his thoughts and deeds are virtuous, and may very well tie himself in knots to fortify such an illusion. But with every case solved, with every plot foiled, with every treasure recovered, I felt justified in laying another brick into the wall around my heart.

Thus did I conduct myself from age eleven to age twenty-seven, my soul untethered to any other, my body a pillar of health, my vital powers preserved, and my libido absent, by nature or by training. And so might I have conducted myself indefinitely, had I not been introduced to Doctor John Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

Was my meeting with John Watson love at first sight? Absolutely not. Though I will not say for certain that love at first sight is impossible or fantastical, I do not believe I myself am capable of that particular impulse. I did, however, correctly determine several things about Watson within a few moments of meeting him: those things I recited to Watson, which he catalogued in his rendition of the Jefferson Hope case, yes, but also that he was both a brave man and a sensible one.

Some might say those qualities are not compatible, but I concluded it immediately when he entered the chemical laboratory at Bart’s. I never told him what I had observed: that he had cleared the room the moment he stepped inside. I watched Watson as he moved swiftly through the doorway, not lingering in it; his eyes flicked to each corner of the room, beginning with the nearest, and then up to sweep the ceiling; as he stepped fully inside, he took note of the narrow windows in the basement room, and positioned himself near enough to me to be properly introduced, but where he could not fall victim to a sniper’s bullet.

I never told Watson that I had seen this, because I suspected that he might not have realised he was doing it, and I did not want to make him self-conscious of such a useful (if incongruous) habit. But any man who, in a hospital in London, exercised a level of caution appropriate for enemy territory in wartime was, as I said, clearly both brave and sensible. Here was a man of good character fallen on hard times, yet his apparent qualities made me feel that we would be at the very least suitable cohabitants. (My suspicions later proved true that once he regained his niche, his constancy, his nerve, and his capable surgeon’s hands would make him an ideal brother-in-arms.)

I was frank with Watson about my bad habits upon our first meeting, and after we took up lodgings together my candor continued. I saw no reason to hide from him those foibles I possessed, and those particular vices which cohabitants might tend to be discreet about, I did not indulge in. Watson did not care for it when I opened my Morocco case, that was immediately apparent, but other than that, he tolerated my eccentricities, and on occasion spoke about them fondly in his chronicles.

He claimed that I was as susceptible to flattery as a girl, and I will not dispute that, but I will say in my defence that I was so unaccustomed to flattery that I had not trained myself to eliminate unguarded reactions to it. Even Stamford, the man who recommended my company to Watson, had warned him that I was a hopeless misfit. My way of seeing the world was treated with, at most, grudging respect, but more often than not suspicion, as I refused to conform to a small but fundamental selection of societal expectations, and in English society, refusal to conform is an unforgivable sin. Watson’s naked praise told me that he and I were kindred spirits, both of us _in_ society but not _of_ it, reared and trained to make our way in this world independently and rarefied by our experience of it.

I soon found Watson’s companionship indispensable. As a military man, he understood the importance of utter loyalty, both to one’s compatriots and to one’s objective: you never abandoned your fellow soldier to peril, you never lost sight of your mission, and retreat was unthinkable. The majority of my cases were (to my mind) simple, and lacking in life-threatening scenarios, but when a lowlife is ready to carry out another murder in order to hide the ones he has already committed and levels his pistol at you, you want a man like Watson at your side, because you know then that the villain will be dispatched.

And when things were not so exciting as all that, Watson proved invaluable to my health and sanity, listening to me when I needed to think aloud, leaving me to my own ponderings when I preferred solitude, urging me to eat, tending to my wounds, and giving me just the right amount of scolding about the cocaine. He could put people at ease when I arrived at their homes and began immediately sweeping through their rooms, inspecting their personal possessions, perhaps climbing on their furniture or crawling on their floors as the situation merited. He could comfort a lady in distress or shake an upright gentleman’s hand more naturally than I had ever cared to learn.

Watson also had hidden complexities, which delighted me to discover, particularly when I had no case to occupy me and longed for stimulation. Sometimes I would share with him what I had learned, such as in the case of his decision not to invest in South African securities, but other things I kept to myself, such as what the shape of his occipital bone told me. A large cerebellum, which necessitates the extension of the occipital bone backwards and downwards, as was Watson’s situation, is an indicator of an enormous capacity for passion, and an intuition for love and devotion. (This was in stark contrast to my own cerebellum, which was of only moderate size, that being the likely reason for my intellect, my lack of inclination to marry, my fastidiousness, and – according to the manuals of phrenology I had studied – the ability to love but once.) At the time that I had observed Watson’s prominent occipital bone, I justified my saying nothing to him about it on the grounds that he must have been perfectly aware already of all of these qualities he possessed.

The more we came to know each other, and the more he showed himself to be an ideal friend and colleague, the more ridiculous I found it that _he_ should admire _me_. I would have thought that over time my skills would become less spectacular as he grew accustomed to their display, whilst my growing affection for his virtues, as they were revealed to me, ought to have made him self-satisfied. Instead, the light of his high regard for me never dimmed, and sometimes I blushed to think of it. I longed to tell him how I cared for him so deeply, how his bravery and good companionship so enriched my life, but every time I looked at his guileless face, his unguarded eyes upon me, I quailed and was silent.

To think of my years of reticence pains me now; he deserved better than my diffidence in this matter. I hope that he could discern my devotion all along, even if I never expressed it in words. After all, there was never anything secret about me. Oh, I could keep a hunch or a suspicion to myself, until such time as I could substantiate it, but in personal matters I was no Sphinx. My every moment of delight and disdain was painstakingly recorded in his chronicles.

He himself, on the other hand, was so adept at modesty that it took me years to appreciate all that he had to offer. His most valuable and practical qualities came to the fore within the first few of our adventures together, but after that, each new discovery filled my heart with the satisfaction of knowing I had indeed chosen a more than worthy companion.

I came to understand, for example, that I could trust in him to be open and honest when it was beneficial, but the soul of discretion when it was vital. I found, for example, that he would never divulge to me anything about the patients he saw in his practice. This could be frustrating, if I suspected that there might be some useful or edifying detail in a patient’s ailment or the treatment thereof, but ultimately I understood that this tendency of Watson’s was invaluable to me. If Watson was upstanding enough to refuse to betray a patient’s confidence to his closest companion, then what he would be willing to keep secret on behalf of that closest companion must be limitless.

My trust in Watson may have been what made me the most gratified of all – never in my life had I felt so safe and comfortable around another person; no other person had earned what Watson had earned from me.

Baker Street became a haven for both of us; certainly for myself, and I think for him as well, it felt like our first true home. Bounced about as we both had been by the circumstances of our very different lives, we were happy to fall in together, neither demanding anything from the other that did not come naturally. Sitting around our little hearth, we could relax and be our idiosyncratic selves, caring not for the opinions of society as regarded our temperaments and our ambitions.

In short, with Watson I enjoyed, for the first time, the inexpressible joy of feeling secure with the company we kept. And despite my failure to bestow the gratitude he deserved for his friendship, I am confident that Watson enjoyed this confederacy as much as I, needing that same security but also relishing in particular those moments when my investigations attained some of the excitement of battle. Though he did not like sudden loud noises, and suffered from the occasional night terror, whenever I suggested that he should bring along his old service revolver on an errand, his eyes would light up, and many was the time he drew close to me when my well-being was threatened, even going so far as to stand between me and a brandished weapon. This shows that Watson too had his vice, an addiction with which he had a conflicted relationship, just as I had my own.

It was after one such altercation that the first of many strange new thoughts came into my mind.

***

My plan had been to catch a burglar red-handed, with a replica of one of my client’s priceless _objets d’art_ as bait. Everything went just as I had anticipated, until the fiend got the point of his knife just inside my right nostril. He must have had no idea that Watson was right behind him, and whilst I was blathering at the burglar, attempting to disarm him with a persuasive word, Watson snuck up and did it the more conventional way; the blade clattered to the floor with no harm done to myself, and Watson held the burglar securely until such time as the police, awaiting my signal nearby, could place a sturdy set of handcuffs on him.

A very strange thrill had run through me when I watched Watson’s graceful tackle, and the burglar’s futile struggle against his hold. I quashed this feeling immediately out of habit, though with a shiver that told me I would be tempted to dwell on it later. It had electrified me to witness Watson’s physical prowess – and one would think that would be nothing to be ashamed of, being a boxer and fencer myself, and therefore naturally an admirer of any feat of athleticism. That evening, however, after I had performed my nighttime routine and slipped into bed, I lay awake for quite some time, playing the scene over in my head in a way which had little to do with sporting technique.

Watson’s strength and bravery had not just been practical and useful that day – watching him had given me a _thrill_. It was nothing new for me to admire Watson’s fortuitous confluence of qualities: Strength means nothing if you have not the will to employ it when necessary, and bravery means nothing if you have not the skill to exhibit it effectively, and it is a rare man who has an equal command of both virtues. As I thought of Watson being that rare man (and not for the first time in my presence), my heart swelled. I was suddenly much more confident than I had been, reading those books as a bewildered adolescent, about what qualities comprised a “very masculine” man.

Though perhaps startling, this new place to which my mind was roaming was not fearful to me. I did not crush the feeling out of fright, as I had done at other times in the past when I’d begun to entertain the least sort of amorous inclination for someone. I suppose it was the trust I placed in Watson, which made me believe that the citadels of my body and mind were not threatened by these thoughts. Instead of discarding them, I desired to unfold them and examine them minutely, seeing where they would take me, if I relaxed and let my heart direct my mind. When my eidetic memory could not provide me with all I wished to see in my mind’s eye, I began to alter, to supplement as it were, the memory of Watson’s valour with things that I surmised about his body: I pictured him subduing the burglar whilst shirtless, his muscles visibly straining, his skin glowing with perspiration from his heroic exertions. In these imaginings, his shoulders were broad, his chest deep, his arms thick.

To defend myself in regards to what happened next, I must insist that I was not _really_ masturbating; I was just playing with my prick a little, whilst I returned to thinking about the event as it had actually occurred, that is, with Watson fully dressed. Perhaps his extended struggle with the burglar would leave him fatigued. Surely he would appreciate having someone to help him undress afterward, just getting out of his confining collar and cuffs, and then perhaps his tie, waistcoat, shirt, and vest, not then and there but in the privacy of our rooms. With that done he would without doubt benefit from having his sore muscles rubbed.

I spent abruptly onto my nightshirt after lingering on this thought for some minutes. It happened so suddenly, I was too startled to feel ashamed. I changed into a clean nightshirt and laid back down to ponder what had just happened. It seemed that I might be in danger of developing a habit that, for the first time, it would be best to hide from Watson.


	3. Chapter 3

The following morning, I had already been sitting at the breakfast table with the newspaper for an hour when I heard Watson begin to stir upstairs. I spent the next twenty minutes steeling myself for the moment of his arrival, practicing at behaving the way I had done in his presence for the last several years. At last, he came down to join me, and I wished him a good morning as if nothing untoward had happened the night before. Being a more proper gentleman than I, Watson always came to breakfast fully dressed, down to his jacket. That morning, I was for the first time despondent about his never having picked up my habit of lounging about in nightshirt and dressing gown when feeling particularly lazy and purposeless, as such a habit would have enabled me to see an inch or two more of his bare skin, and to feel the intimacy of seeing him rumpled, softened, disheveled.

That afternoon, a client paid a visit, a woman named Elizabeth Hayes who was convinced she was being followed through the streets of Camden by the ghost of her aunt, who had died eight years ago. I interviewed her for nearly an hour, collecting all the relevant data I could about the possible means and motivations for such a strange state of affairs.

In the end, as Miss Hayes had every reason to believe that her aunt was quite deceased but unmistakably strolling through the streets, I presumed she was the victim of a ruse, or at the very least a misunderstanding, rather than any supernatural phenomena. I asked her for every detail of her daily routine, then instructed her to carry out this routine to the letter the following day, during which time Watson and I would, rather than follow her directly and possibly draw attention to ourselves, instead plant ourselves at key places along her route, watching for this mysterious figure to appear in her wake.

Watson and I spent the day flitting about Camden, hailing cabs and taking side streets in order to secure our vantage points. Sure enough, wherever we found ourselves when my client made her way through on her errands, a lurking woman in her aunt’s green shawl was never far away. It so happened that this woman chose to make herself known just when Miss Hayes was approaching the counter at a bakery; Watson and I watched from behind our coffee and scones at a table in the corner.

There was a careless bumping of shoulders, to make it all appear to have happened by accident, and then a shocked and elated greeting. There followed an astounding story of miraculous circumstance, during which time I recognised the woman, beneath her makeup and wig: she was an actress, whose West End income I had supplemented twice in the past by having hired her myself to play a minor role in solving a client’s difficulty.

I ended the ruse by leaping from my chair and greeting her like an old friend, by her stage name. From there the whole thing unraveled without delay; the actress admitted that she had been hired by the son of the woman she was impersonating, to appeal to Miss Hayes’ sentimental nature in order that she might see fit to share her recent inheritance with her cousin.

It was an uneventful case, satisfying when all loose ends were tied up but without the danger and suspense of my previous encounter with the burglar. The curious thing was, though, that I had spent this day of cab rides and coffee and waiting and watching absolutely bursting with enthusiasm – because the whole day had been spent with Watson, whose presence and being was absolutely riveting in a new and heart-pounding way. Everything he did I found enchanting, from the alluring manner in which he held his cigarette to the charming way he feigned nonchalance when Miss Hayes walked by us in the street. Every movement was so confident, so deliberate. I had always thought of Watson as being as constant as the North Star, but I had grown to think of him as being just as splendid and radiant to look upon. I committed every gesture, every smile, every sly look to memory, and that night, alone in my room, I confess I made use of it all.

The sinister spectre of self-abuse had haunted my adolescence only occasionally, and in my adulthood with even less frequency. I had gone about mostly untroubled by the physical charms of those around me, and it was a rare day when vigorous exercise and a self-imposed spartan lifestyle (or the overwhelming weight of one of my black moods) proved insufficient at keeping at bay those few urges that did manifest.

Thus, masturbation had been for me more often a necessary release of distracting nervous tension than an erotic indulgence. These occasional trespasses sometimes made me temporarily lethargic, but one emission would not prompt me to seek another; weeks or months would go by before I felt the next need to quell my bodily agitation. This minimised the lingering anxiety I felt, about those maladies which the hygiene books had warned me of.

Now however, bewitched by my dear friend and made giddy by the mere thought of his touch, I was reaching for my impudent member nearly every day. I did not always bring myself to completion – reasoning that my weakness to the very thought of Watson “didn’t count” if I did not have a release – but when there was no case to distract me, I found myself increasingly needing to attend to clandestine bodily compulsions.

It came to a point where I accepted that this activity was taking up valuable time and energy, and that I must find a way to manage these cravings for Watson so that I might get on with my life unhindered by yearning. If only putting an end to infatuation was as simple as understanding that it was unproductive! But just as I had trained hunger and thirst out of my body, I was resolved to do away with lust.

Keeping busy was my best respite from prurient thoughts, so I buried myself in work. I took on cases I found less than interesting, just to have something to occupy me. And when nothing was on, my meticulousness in the maintenance of my commonplace books increased dramatically. With this strict regimen, I laboured to keep my impertinent body under control, until such time as my affection for Watson settled into an unremarkable habit, a feeling I could acknowledge and then simply ignore, as I did with fatigue or cold.

But it was not so easy as that. Despite my efforts, I could not free myself from the desires roiling in me despite every defence I’d trained into myself against them. Many was the day I found myself staring at Watson’s reflection in some surface, so that I might look my fill without seeming suspect. Many was the night when I awoke freezing, the sheets having been kicked away, and wished for his body against mine to warm me. When I did give in entirely, and touched myself to thoughts of him, I did it for an extravagant amount of time, which was my compromise for doing it far less frequently than I desired to: if I was going to ruin myself with self-abuse, I might as well make the most of each transgression, and linger on vague but enthralling fantasies of his body, his voice, his touch – his adoration.

Watson made it clear, to me and to his readers, that he had admired me since the day we met, but I became greedy, not content with indulging in these thoughts but desiring a more earthly admiration from him, a reciprocation of my ravenous cravings. I recall one particular night: the night of the downfall of Baroness Ilsa Flitzwig. In the ballroom at the end of the evening, and later, in the cab, Watson and I maintained a steely silence, as everything that had happened to us at the ball had concerned matters of national security. As soon as we were safely ensconced in our rooms, however, he cried out, “I cannot believe that the master spy turned out to be a...well, a _mistress_ spy. Holmes, you must tell me how you knew it.”

“I might have never known it myself,” I replied, “had I not chanced to dance with the Baroness. I only expected to perhaps extract a clue from her with idle chatter, about who the spy might be and how he planned to deliver his message to the traitor in Whitehall. But it was her dress that gave her away. Embroidered along the neckline of her bodice were glass beads, some round, some elongated: Morse code.”

Watson was awestruck. “What a brilliant idea! She must have known she was at risk of being found out, and such a technique guaranteed she would not be caught with compromising materials bearing the coded orders she was giving. A truly marvelous plot – of course it could only be foiled by you!”

His warm eyes were shining – how they grew still warmer whenever they regarded me! – and I flushed up. In the past, that would have been the end of it, but now I wished desperately to say to him, _How about a kiss, then, to celebrate my singular victory over the sinister forces of international espionage? Just a quick little kiss...and then a long slow one. And perhaps you could slip your hand into my trousers, and grasp me firmly. Surely that’s not too much for a man to ask who has done his duty for Queen and country? After all, I would do the same for you in an instant, in gratitude for your wartime service_.

I did not dare say a word of this, of course, but perhaps hinted at it when I looked into his eyes, for I could swear I detected a hint of conspiratorial mischief in them. But no, I had to be mistaken.

As the months went by, my overactive imagination continued to get the better of me in this way. Watson would say something, and I would nearly, _nearly_ reach for his knee to squeeze it, believing that to be the most appropriate way to show my appreciation to my beloved. Or I would announce that I was retiring for the evening, and then standing in my bedroom, I would turn around, disappointed that he had not followed me, as I had expected. Though I’ve been accused of living too much in my own head, I had always considered myself to be a man with a solid grip on reality, and yet here I was, momentarily believing that my wish for a more intimate companionship with Watson had come true.

As mentioned before, I was not so troubled with these thoughts when I had a case to occupy me, and between cases, when I was in a mood to occupy myself with an experiment, I stayed well-distracted. But there were times when nothing could induce me to take up busywork, when the temptation towards sulky idleness was irresistible, and it was during those times that I dwelled on licentious imaginings to what I was certain was an unhealthy degree. I entertained vague but fervent fantasies of Watson’s hands on my skin, his body atop mine, and his enraptured expression as these nebulous couplings reached their apex.

Those times were particularly troublesome when Watson was similarly idle. Every wry smile he gave me, every twinkle in his eye, every gesture of his body seemed to inspire an onanistic indulgence – and increased my suspicion (my hope? my delusion?) that he was aware of my yearning and felt similarly. I searched for clues that this was so, taking note of his jealousy when I pursued cases without him, measuring his willingness to set other duties aside to accompany me on adventures. But even then, was I merely projecting my own possessiveness onto him? Was I only seeing my own depravity in his mischievous behaviour?

A day came when I could stand it no longer: I simply had to find out if there was any chance that Watson might return my affections. It was a perilous time for those accused of gross indecency; one might face years of hard labour for their indiscretions. But I was certain that I could at least inquire into Watson’s inclinations without danger, for two reasons: first, I believed that I could make this inquiry with subtlety, in a way which could easily be waved away as a misunderstanding if he reacted with disgust. Second, I knew Watson to be the soul of discretion; just as he would never betray a patient’s trust, certainly he would not run to tell the police a gruesome tale if my advance was unwelcome. Knowing he would keep my secret gave me the courage to risk his rejection.

Once I had decided that I would seek an answer, the next step was to determine how to seek it in the most definitive yet deniable way. The obvious answer seemed to me to be the way that all great romances begin – with a look.

Though I lacked experience, I was no naïf: I had strolled through parks in the West End and crossed paths with those notorious dandies in their garish frock-coats, their lapels bearing coded messages. On several of these occasions I had been the object of a dandy’s peculiar gaze, one which travelled quickly down, then slowly up, with a final inquiring look into my eyes at the end. I had on those occasions never returned the signal they sought, but neither did I communicate offence or disdain, as there was no harm done...and I confess I had always felt a certain sympathy with them, as they were, like myself, compelled to continuously seek what satisfied them with no respite in sight, finding no permanent contentment as society dictated they ought, in the arms of a respectable wife.

I wished now to use this gaze that I had on occasion fallen under, so as to signal to Watson everything that such a gaze was meant to signal. I attempted it one quiet evening when Watson was just returning to Baker Street, having spent the day at his medical practice.

“Your timing is fortuitous,” I said, lounging in my chair before the fireplace as he hung up his overcoat and hat. “Mrs. Hudson is bringing up dinner shortly.” I then favoured him with that same heated gaze I had been the target of, my eyes darting from top to toe, then caressing from toe to top. He did not acknowledge what I had done, but seated himself in his chair opposite mine, and stretched his legs out.

“Been on my feet all day,” he said. “Very busy today.”

“Hmm.” I tried again, waiting until he looked at me, then dragging my gaze up his outstretched legs, across his body and over his limbs, and up to meet his eyes.

He frowned. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that I had my lunch at a different café than usual, and that I elected to take a cab rather than walk home.”

Blast it! He misread what I was attempting entirely, although in fairness to him, his assumption about my intention _was_ the most reasonable one.

I saved face by replying, “Yes, and also one of your patients vomited on you.”

He snorted. “That is an easy one. You recognised the set of spare clothes I keep at the office in case of a mishap.”

I hummed again and turned my attention to the crackling fire.

***

Not too long after this atrocious attempt at wooing, Watson was helping me carry some newspapers and documents to my little archive in the lumber-room, and after returning to the sitting room he noticed an opened envelope teetering at the corner of my desk. He asked if it belonged with the other old papers.

“No,” I said. I myself knew that the work was entirely finished, and so was already collapsing upon the settee, lighting a cigarette. “It is not worth saving.”

Watson held the envelope by the corners between his fingertips, then sat at the desk and said, “Allow me to attempt once more to employ your methods.”

“I would welcome it,” I said, “as I am lacking any other light entertainment at the moment.”

Watson examined the envelope. “It’s addressed in a fine, deliberate hand, no haste or worry in it. Ah, and the name: Thomas Waugh. I remember him. He sought your services several years ago, about a scheme being perpetrated by his brother, if I recall. No, his brother-in-law. Well, so this is a man who has brought you interesting work in the past, and yet you have opened this envelope and found nothing hopeful in it. So the letter must be merely some show of gratitude.”

“True gratitude would have been to bring me another case,” I sighed. But Watson was right on all counts, and I told him so.

“May I look at the contents?”

I waved vaguely at him to indicate my consent.

“ _Dear Mr. Holmes_ ,” he read aloud, “ _I hope this letter finds you well_...” I half-listened as Watson made his way through the meandering pleasantries. “... _I had always felt a heel for not being able to offer remuneration for your services, but since our last meeting, I have established a successful business, and have also married. My wife and I dwell happily in a little cottage in the seaside town of Folkestone. We are spending the remainder of the summer with her family in Edinburgh, and so I would like to offer my home to you for any length of time you desire during our absence, so that you might take the air, swim in the sea, stroll along the pier, and enjoy all the charms that Folkestone has to offer. I know that you must find London as oppressive as I did_ –” Here I interrupted Watson with a laugh. “... _and I hope that this humble offer will make a suitable payment for your help all those years ago_.”

Watson looked at me as though I had sorely disappointed him. “Now Holmes, I can almost understand why you dislike taking holidays – you need the mental stimulation of work, of course. But it’s nearly August, and already the heat here in London stifling. One can hardly go out in the street without getting filthy with perspiration, and the smell of horse droppings gets to be unbearable. Surely a visit to the seaside will at least be more comfortable, especially now when you’ve not had a case in some days. When was the last time a Yarder was by?”

I nearly favoured Watson with a lengthy speech about how very little it mattered to me how hot or stuffy or hazy or odiferous London was; bodily comfort was of no concern when the mind was suitably occupied. And while right now there was no case in sight, that could change at any moment.

However, as Watson implored me to reconsider, it occurred to me that it might be best to hold my tongue, if only for a moment. A new thought sprang to mind, to do with something I’d learned about the amorous tendencies of other people, which I had for so long studied but had always felt myself above. Specifically, I considered how indiscretions often happen when one is far from home: certainly those who travel abroad take advantage of a host country’s more tolerant mores, and enjoy their own relative anonymity. Encountering one of the captivating locals, it might be discovered that the only language in common was the so-called language of love. But even when travelling a mere few miles from home, in a charmingly unfamiliar setting and with the oppressive presence of one’s day-to-day obligations and commitments lifted for a while, one is more susceptible to indulging in whims.

Perhaps, uprooted from our Baker Street routine, and away from London’s millions of eyes, I might find a less guarded Watson, a Watson whom I might convince to take liberties with me.

“You have succeeded in convincing me,” I announced, sitting up and gesturing for Watson to give me the letter. “I shall take this man up on his offer, only on the condition that his hospitality extends to you as well.”

Watson seemed dumbfounded by my about-face, amazed that he could have done any such thing as convince me to go against my stubborn ways, but I ignored this and set immediately to composing a reply to Waugh’s letter.

***

When a second letter arrived from my former client, Watson took it from Mrs. Hudson, and I bid him read it to me. He meandered round the back of the chair I was sitting in as he did so.

“ _I do remember your man Watson, and he certainly is welcome. Of course we anticipated that you would desire to bring a_...” He paused. “Holmes, I take it you did not specify in your letter that I was your colleague? _Doctor_ Watson?”

“I may have left those details out in my haste. Why?”

Watson came round to stand at my side, showing me the letter. “He seems to think I am your valet.”

I clapped my hand over my eyes. “A thousand apologies, Watson, I never intended–”

“It’s perfectly alright,” he said, and laid his hand over mine, just the briefest gesture of tenderness to show that there truly were no hard feelings. Nonetheless, I nearly jumped from my skin to feel the warmth of it, and silently cursed the loss the moment he took it away again. “He’s not the first to labour under that delusion. Anyway, he has included all the pertinent details here, and says we may arrive any day after the tenth. He will be returning at the end of the month.”

I was almost in danger of giving Watson the impression that I was moribund, with how I struggled to hide my glee at the prospect of inciting his passions far from home: steepling my fingers, I sighed and closed my eyes. “Very well. I cannot predict what machinations of the criminal class I might be called upon to investigate between now and then, but we shall depart on the first day after the tenth that I have all my affairs in order here in London.”


	4. Chapter 4

Our train was delayed, so we did not arrive at Folkestone Central station until dinnertime. Waugh’s cottage was a short stroll from the station, and we only took enough time to set down our luggage before heading out in search of a chophouse; on the way, we joked about how, lacking a housekeeper, we would be hard-pressed just to keep ourselves upright, warm, and fed during our holiday.

After our meal, Watson insisted on a stroll along the strand – there was a boardwalk to keep our shoes out of the sand, at least. As we walked, he told me of the times on the west coast of India where he had watched the sun sink into the sea at this time of day, and how enchanting it was. I myself had not seen such a thing, only two or three sunrises over eastern coasts such as this one, but I could not imagine that these sunsets of Watson’s were any more of a sight to see. I asked him for more details nonetheless, as these days I was enamoured of hearing him speak of fond memories.

Sometimes he would pause in his quixotic recollections, and there would be silence between us, and I could hear him inhaling the sea air deeply. I remembered the advice I’d read in one of those hygiene books as a child: _The sea air encourages vigorousness and assists fecundation._ I imagined the sea air so invigorating Watson that the amorous element would be quickened within him, and with no other suitable outlet, he would be forced to turn to me to find relief.

By the time we returned to the cottage, we were quite ready for bed. We looked in on the second bedroom, which was little more than a closet. Both of us had endured far worse overnight accommodations in our lives; nevertheless, I declared that there was no reason to use this room, when the spacious master bed was plenty for both of us, and as we kept dissimilar hours, any time one of us was up and about, the other would have the whole thing to himself. Anyway, it wouldn’t be the first time we’d shared a bed away from home.

Watson had brought along a couple of Clark Russell novels, which he set on the bedside table, and as I got under the covers, I asked if he would read aloud to me.

“Oh, these aren’t anything you’d be interested in,” he said as he slipped in beside me, “just some of my sea stories.”

“It matters not to me,” I assured him. I did not explain that I only wished to listen to his voice as I drifted off to sleep, but he did not need more encouragement anyway, and began reading aloud from one of the books where’d he’d left off in it. I did not bother to absorb any of the words, just let them wash over me until I was welcomed into the arms of Morpheus.

We awoke the following morning to a startlingly blue sky and, opening the windows, wonderfully warm breezes. I tend to be indifferent to weather, but Watson was delighted, and suggested we have a picnic that day. I requested several hours in which to smoke a pipe, wake up properly, have some tea, read the paper, smoke another pipe, dress, and brace myself for a day spent in the clean, fresh out-of-doors, but other than that I was more or less amenable.

Watson found a suitable basket in the kitchen, plus utensils, serviettes, and two wine glasses. We set out in the early afternoon, first to the high street, where we collected our provisions. We filled our picnic basket with bread, cheese, cold sliced meats, cherries, and a daintily-ribboned box of four chocolates, plus a bottle of wine. As routine as this errand was, it was pleasant to do something so bland and domestic, because I was doing so with Watson.

I protested that I did not want to picnic on the strand, as I did not care for sand in my food (and my shoes, and my shirt), but I pointed out the enormous oak trees on a hill overlooking the coastline, and we hiked up. We found that these oaks shaded a little green meadow, from which vantage point we could still see the waves rolling in, and hear the cries of gulls. The leaves of the ancient oaks provided plenty of shade, and we found a spot that was not too lumpy with exposed roots upon which to spread our blanket.

Not so long ago, I would have found all of these activities – visiting a seaside resort, relaxing in the fresh air, eating – so tedious individually, and practically unbearable when combined, but today I could think of no better way to pass the time, enjoying Watson’s companionship with no interruptions. It was particularly enjoyable to watch him as he ate, his fingers touching his mouth, his tongue darting out to collect crumbs or stray drops of cherry juice.

It was a warm day, and the breeze was not so strong up here as it was closer to the shore, making it uncomfortable to wear our coats. We checked for anyone else who might be strolling or picnicking, but it would seem that we had the little hill to ourselves, so we cast our coats aside. It was very intimate indeed, to be outdoors with Watson in my shirtsleeves. I felt emboldened, and desperate to know once and for all if he might share the tender affections I harboured for him.

At every opportunity I moved incrementally closer to him, under the guise of reaching for some morsel, adjusting the blanket, or avoiding a tree root erupting from the ground. When he noticed how close I was, he looked at me, and I can’t imagine he did not catch my knowing look which indicated that it was no accident. Not once did he attempt to regain the distance between us. Instead, he poured more wine into my glass after refreshing his own, and offered me the box of sweetmeats.

I laid my hand over his, as if to steady the box, which was of course completely unnecessary. With my other hand I took up one of the morsels, and looked at him as I popped it into my mouth. He smiled at me.

He had one hand on the blanket, resting his weight upon it whilst he put down the chocolates and took up his wine glass with the other. I leaned to one side, folded my legs, and placed my hand next to his, mirroring his posture. He did not react. I moved my hand to close the last inch of space between his and mine, brushing his fingers with my own. We looked at each other, and his expression was one of surprise, but not aversion. Once he understood that I was still being quite deliberate, his face softened, and without breaking his gaze, he returned the minute caress of fingertips. Overcome by all the peculiar excitements he had provoked in me all these months, my eyes fluttered closed, and I gasped. Leaning forward, I blindly begged, “Watson, you must know what I desire. Please give it to me without further delay.”

He shifted forward, and when I felt his breath on my lips, I opened my mouth slightly to welcome him. Then he turned away. “Someone might see us,” he said.

This was a fair reason for hesitation, and my heart leapt to know that the possibility of being spied on was his only objection. But I felt shame nonetheless, for was I not the tireless guardian of my emotions? Was I not the untouchable statue, with no weaknesses to exploit? Yet here I was now, scolded by Watson for my juvenile lack of discipline. “Of course you are right,” I sighed.

Watson, bless him, took pity on me, and patted my knee. I grabbed his proffered hand in my own and said, “But no one can hear us, surely. So just _tell_ me what you would do, if you knew we would not be seen.”

Watson looked around once more, and finding no bystanders, he said, “Had we an absolute guarantee of privacy, I would kiss you breathless, just to start.”

Oh, that was what I had longed to hear! I clutched his sleeve and whispered, “If we make our way back to the cottage and shut ourselves up in it, will you make good on this promise?”

His eyes glimmered with a new mischief. “I am a man of my word.”

Heat bloomed in my belly to hear him say this. “It’s important that you understand, I am in need of guidance on these matters. Would you teach me everything I need to know?”

“I can’t imagine I have much to teach you,” he said with a chuckle. “You’re always reading; between scientific texts and that sensational literature you devour, your knowledge of matters both anatomical and carnal must be encyclopaedic.”

“Perhaps, but that is not what I mean at all. I desperately need to know, if at all possible, how it feels to be the object of such a craving as I have. Would you teach me what it feels like to be consumed in a mutual voluptuous desire? _Can_ you teach me that?”

“I can, and I will.”

“Then you’ll forgive my haste in bringing our picnic to a decisive conclusion,” I said, wrapping up the remaining cheese and meat and putting it in the basket.

I’m not certain that my feet ever touched the ground on the walk back. I had no idea what pleasures were in store that evening, but the details mattered little to me; my heart was soaring with anticipation.

Upon reaching the cottage, I was forced to curse that sensibility I so valued in Watson, for once he’d got the door locked behind us, rather than throw me to the floor and ravish me then and there, he asked me to lay the fire in the bedroom whilst he put the remainder of our picnic in the larder. He was wise, though, to assign me this chore, for as soon as he came into the bedroom, approached me, and slipped my coat from my shoulders, I knew I would want the room to be warm, for I would soon be wearing nothing.

Watson took off his own coat, and I moved to unfasten his shirt cuffs, but he stayed my hands. Instead, he bid me be still and allow him to loosen my tie and slip it from around my throat. He unfastened my collar, then my cuffs, setting everything aside with care. He unbuttoned my waistcoat and did away with it, then unfastened my braces. He unbuttoned my shirt with maddening fastidiousness, pushing it from my shoulders and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. I sat on the bed when he nudged me to do so, and despite my protests that it was entirely unnecessary, he knelt down to remove my shoes and socks. Then went my undershirt, over my raised arms, and finally he had me stand again so that he could unbutton and tug away my trousers and drawers.

I stood utterly naked before him, and I chanced to glance at myself in the full-length mirror, and was momentarily humbled by my pallid, rangy form. I had never stopped thinking of myself, even at this age, as a scrawny youth always on the edge of bodily corruption. But Watson, oblivious to my thoughts, slid his strong hands approvingly down my arms and then up over my belly and chest. I made another effort to divest him of his clothing, and this time he allowed me to unfasten his cuffs, collar, and tie and cast them aside, but before I could get my hands on the buttons of his waistcoat, he murmured in my ear, “Why don’t you lie down on the bed.”

I ignored my desires and treated his suggestion like an order of the highest urgency. He watched me as I attempted to arrange myself in an artfully sprawled manner – his affectionate expression told me that perhaps I was being a bit awkward. But he kneeled over me, covering my body with his own, and I momentarily forgot about my self-consciousness, gasping in anticipation of being shown every pleasure whilst under his capable hands. I should have guessed that Watson would throw himself into this just as he threw himself into everything we did together, and I was grateful for it; I would never have been confident enough in what we were doing to pursue it with such ferocity as he was now.

I have always prided myself on being a quick study, but Watson’s kisses were so disarming, I could do nothing but accept them, opening my mouth and allowing him to do as he wished, languishing on the far side of being able to reciprocate properly. He didn’t seem to mind, focused as he was on handling my body with keen confidence.

I had thought I understood what arousal was. Arousal was a nuisance, the congestion in one’s genitals that interrupted one’s thinking but was done away with by a few tugs…was it not? But that, I was now discovering, could not have been more wrong. Arousal was a fire in your belly, a desperate need to be touched, even when you were already being touched. Arousal was the sweetest agony. It was a syrupy throbbing, a squirmy tingling. It was wailing and thrashing and not caring that you were making a spectacle of yourself.

I was lost in a bliss so intense I ached with it, but then Watson retreated from me, and perched himself on the edge of the bed, at my feet. I once again felt silly, naked and splayed whilst he was still mostly dressed, and I demanded, “Where are you going?”

“Only just to here. I’d like to watch you touch yourself for me.”

I sputtered, “Watch me– _Watson_ , I have touched myself enough for a lifetime in the last several months. I have sinned most grievously and am certainly going to Damnation, and I will take you with me this minute if you don’t come back here and have me. To begin with, I’m very embarrassed that I am naked whilst you are not.”

Watson only chuckled at my ire. “I know you’re embarrassed. That is precisely the point. Holmes, I am prepared to give you everything you want. I would make a seven-course meal of you every night, if you’ll permit me. But before I do, you must show me that you can make yourself vulnerable before me. You are a prideful man, and I won’t be satisfied with you giving me only a sliver of yourself because you fear the loss of your precious dignity.”

The man had me dead to rights. Was I truly ready for what I longed for so desperately? I had thought I was, but now my ardour was being put to the test. “So I should just…” I inclined my head to indicate my prick. He nodded.

I had no choice but to trust Watson’s methods. He had only ever wanted what he knew was best for me, and I saw no reason why this trait of his should have vanished just now. I closed my eyes and took myself in hand.

“Do it just as you like,” he said. “Don’t put on a show. Do what you would do if I were not here. It will be a lesson for me; I can learn how you prefer it.”

I could not imagine that there was anything remarkable or worthy of insight in my personal technique, but I did my best to show him how I had been rubbing my prick lately, when it had demanded attention. I wasn’t at it long before he asked, “Is that all you do?”

I stammered, “Yes…?” I did feel incredibly stupid, after his passionate assault on my person, for having ever been satisfied with such perfunctory relief as I was administering to myself at the moment. But Watson’s next remark was, “You work so slowly at yourself.”

No talent or skill was needed to observe this. Nonetheless my pulse was quickening with being under his scrutiny. “I like to draw it out,” I explained. “I like to think about you and I don’t like to stop.”

“What do you think of?”

I spread my legs wider, planting one foot on either side of him, hoping to entice him to come closer. He did not, but he did slide one of his hands round my ankle, gripping me in an unexpectedly intimate way. In my shock, I blurted out an answer to his question: “I just wanted you to touch me all over. I’ve never been touched.”

“Hmm. Is that all?”

Embarrassed at my outburst, I shut my eyes and winced as I continued to work at myself, and confessed, “I want to see your prick. I want to know what it looks like. I want to see how your bollocks hang.”

“Perhaps that can be arranged,” he said. I opened my eyes immediately, to see his hands seeking the top button of his trousers. I began to pant open-mouthed, “Yes, yes,” whilst I pumped my prick faster. I could tell that he already had an erection; I ached to view it.

He unfastened the button with deliberate, excruciating slowness. He was tantalising me into such a frenzy, I was growing near to my crisis just from the anticipation, but I held back, wanting to see how much he would reveal to me. He undid the second button, then the third, and my toes curled. “Please,” I whispered.

Taking his time, he freed the last button, then shifted aside his drawers, and his cockstand tumbled into view. It was thick and flushed and beautiful, and I kept my eyes open to admire it even as I was provoked to a crisis. I spent onto my belly whilst uttering the most embarrassing groans. I saw Watson’s prick twitch and jerk while I was spending; he liked what he was seeing as well.

After quite some time I finished, and relaxed upon the bed, catching my breath but with my gaze still affixed to that handsome ruddy column poking out of his trousers. He took out his handkerchief and tidied up what I’d spilled. “As always, you were marvelous to observe,” he said, and gave me a peck on the forehead. “Now, I hope your post-orgasmic lassitude has not caused you to lose interest entirely...?”

Not only was his prick was still out and stiff, he was now unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“Not a whit,” I assured him, and watched, utterly rapt, as he undressed at the foot of the bed. By the time he was stripping out of his underclothes, I’d crawled halfway down the mattress reaching for him. He laughed. “No need to work as hard as that; I’m coming to you.” He laid himself down, and I was upon him in an instant. Now that the fog of my arousal had cleared, I could indulge in my most natural and instinctive obsession: curiosity. Determined to examine him closely and learn everything there was to know about his body, I crawled all over him, memorising every important detail. I catalogued every mole and scar. I squeezed his muscles. I caressed the finest hairs on his skin with just my fingertips, then played more boldly with the thick fur on his chest. I did extensive research into whether he preferred to have his nipples lightly pinched or firmly sucked. He found it funny how I sniffed all over him like a bloodhound, but his odour was intoxicating, and I longed to bury my nose in the places where it was strongest.

Which brought me into the general vicinity of his prick.

I had never been so near to one before, even my own, which was easily enough gripped, but by necessity remained farther from my eyes. How dazzlingly obscene Watson’s tumescence was, up close! Wet and rubicund and throbbing and hot, so much more than even my lascivious imaginings, so real and vulgar and thrumming, so proud and straight when erect. His bollocks were drawn up tightly to his body. I watched them quiver whenever I touched him in particularly sensitive spots. I played with his foreskin, pushing it back and forth over the crown, watching the fluid well up at the tip, then spill over.

I played with it like this until he begged me to not stop, to never stop; when he spent, he nearly caught me in the eye with it, but I would not have traded the intimate vantage point, it was so astoundingly lewd but at the same time so tender to watch him lose control and erupt in fierce, spasmodic jets.

I picked up the handkerchief he had discarded and burdened it once more with a copious mess. Watson took it from me and cast it aside, then got himself and myself arranged beneath the blankets, where he invited me to be enfolded in his arms. Holding me, he breathed across my ear, “I hope this was not too odd or unceremonious an initiation into the ways of love.”

I had not the energy just then to reassure him of the full extent of my satisfaction, to recount detail by detail the sincere cries, the fragrant odours, and the deliciously lurid images which I would hold in my memory forever, and would surely revisit whenever I needed relief from boredom (which would be often). I lacked the wit and verve, in my languor, to describe how fascinating, how riveting, how wonderfully novel each moment of our inaugural coupling felt to me. Instead, I simply replied, “You have proven yourself once again to be an invaluable companion. I wonder if you might read to me some more tonight?”

“Anything at all I can do for you, I am at your service,” he said, and only jostled me a little as he strained to reach the book on the bedside table.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The morning began almost unremarkably, save for the fact that Watson and I awoke naked and in each other’s arms; each of us braved the sunlight streaming in the windows with our usual grumbling lethargy, compelled to rise by our demandingly full bladders. We splashed water on our faces, donned nightshirts and dressing gowns for decency’s sake, then shuffled out to the kitchen, to nibble at the picnic leftovers – our intention had been to collect more comestibles to fill the larder on our way home from the picnic, but now we were paying for our having gotten distracted, with only a few slices of cold meat and cheese to sustain us.

The bedroom called us back, though, and once all of the aforementioned pressing bodily needs had been satisfied, we felt free to give in to mere desire. We ended up on the rumpled sheets, dressing gowns open and nightshirts rucked up, playing with each other’s pricks in the warm sunlight that filtered through the gauzy curtains, until we’d spent ourselves dry. Then we lolled on the bed awhile, before finally admitting to ourselves that we must go out that day for proper sustenance. 

One might think that I would be anxious about stepping out and having to be presentable and unassuming about what had happened the night before, but it was quite the opposite. Going out gave me the opportunity to indulge in a different inclination of mine: you see, I have been dreadfully miscast as an ascetic – the truth is, I am a sensualist. I love a hot bath, beautiful music, a good wine. The reason for this mistaken assumption is that despite all of that, nothing feels as good to me as self-discipline; nothing gratifies me like keeping my weaknesses concealed. And at this moment, my weakness was my newly requited and consummated passion for Watson, and the idea of going out in the streets with him, where we would need to act as though nothing untoward had happened in the last half-a-day, gave me an exquisite thrill. The people we passed had not a clue about the truth of me, the truth of what Watson had done to me, and it was indescribably satisfying.

We hadn’t quite made it to the high street, however, when we were stopped cold by the sight of a wailing boy, sitting on a stoop, tears streaming down his face. Watson stepped forward to comfort him. “There, there, my lad, what’s there to cry about on so splendid a day?”

The boy was inconsolable, and sobbed through his tale of woe: his closest companion, his beloved dog, had gone missing. It was no jewel theft or murder, but I couldn’t help but spring forth to offer my services. I gathered all the information I could from him, confirmed that the house we stood in front of was the house he lived in, and promised to do my best to assist.

According to the boy, the dog was a mottled grey-and-black terrier, and it had been perfectly healthy and safe the night before, when it had laid itself down at the foot of the boy’s bed. He had awoken to find the dog absent, and had called to it all over the neighborhood, to no avail. I suggested to Watson that a brief exploration of the surrounding streets was in order, to familiarise ourselves with them.

How to get the wayward canine to come to us when it had not answered its master’s call was at first beyond us, but a hunch came to me in the form of a horse-drawn ice wagon. Returning to the boy’s house, we asked him about all the delivery carts that came down the street, and when they tended to arrive. He listed them, and we were off again to make inquiries.

Within an hour, all had become clear: before the boy had awoken in the morning, his mother had risen to accept the coal delivery, which is when the dog had darted out through the open door. Likely it had given chase to a mouse or rat, following its quarry up the ramp and into the coal wagon. When the ramp was shut, the dog was trapped, and was then carted all over town, unseen by the delivery man due to its colour matching that of his usual cargo. (This was all discovered after our having no luck with the milk cart and the butcher.)

We recovered the dog, unharmed but quite sooty, and carried him back to the boy, who burst into fresh tears at the sight of his beloved pet.

As we continued on our way to the grocer’s, Watson remarked. “I must say, that was very kind of you, to take so much time for such a trivial mystery.”

“Ah, but it only seems trivial to you and I,” I replied. “To that boy it meant the whole world, no less than stolen diplomatic papers or heirloom jewelry mean the world to my clients in London.”

***

That evening after dinner, we relaxed in the sitting room before a crackling wood fire. Each of us had his glass of brandy, and was enjoying a cigarette. Not too long ago, these comforts would have been all we needed to be utterly content, but having given ourselves up to lust, we now found ourselves craving an additional earthly pleasure. Even though we’d had quite a lot of each other that morning, a day of errands and leisure made it seem years ago.

It was Watson who moved to make the evening a passionate one – and thank God, for I was still little more than a bundle of confused excitements, in need of guidance. When he knelt down in front of my chair, right between my legs, I thought I might faint from an all-day anticipation that was now spiking.

“Forgive me my bold enthusiasm,” he said, “but I cannot help myself – it has come to me to introduce you to every kind of venery, and I am both overwhelmed and emboldened by how much of the task is still ahead of me. You must tell me if I am proceeding too hastily with you.”

“I promise to do so,” I breathed, trying to appear calm despite how hard I was clutching the arm of the chair, “if my own eagerness permits me to stay your hand.”

“Until that moment arrives, then, I shall indulge myself.” He leaned forward, and released the buttons of my trousers and drawers with tantalising meticulousness. It was a great relief when he brought my prick out into the open air, for I had felt appallingly confined for the past several hours, even when I had not been concealing a state of arousal.

Settling into my lap, Watson squeezed his elbows in between my legs and the arms of the chair, bending over my prick to give a soft, open mouthed kiss to the tip. The shock sent a wave of pleasure up my spine and down my thighs; it was not just the warmth and wetness of it, but the _tenderness_ was quite alarming to me. He kissed and mouthed at my cockstand like it was precious, worshipping it with his lips and tongue.

I watched him as he pursed his lips at the tip, then with some wet suction, drew me into his mouth, his lips hugging the glans, the crown, then the shaft. When his nose was in my pubic hair, he began to suckle rhythmically, and I was breathless with the exhilaration of it.

His slow sucking was lush, and I was tingling all over and unable to keep still; my toes curled, and I squirmed in my seat. Watson was very tolerant of my restlessness, and placed his hands on my thighs to keep himself steady upon and around me.

It occurred to me then that I still held my cigarette, and was about to drop my ash onto my client’s furniture. I tapped the cigarette over the ashtray, then after considering it a moment, decided to indulge in a deep drag, then a swig of brandy as well. Gorging my senses still further whilst Watson pampered my prick felt fantastically sordid, in a way that nothing ever had before.

I set down my glass with a thud and unceremoniously dropped my cigarette into the ashtray, so that with my shaking hands I might claw at the arms of the chair once more. “Oh, my dear,” I gasped, “I’m afraid I’m quite near to my crisis.” I expected Watson to snatch up his handkerchief and finish me off with his hand. Instead, when I spent, he only sucked more firmly, perfectly happy it seemed to drink me down, even going so far as to continue to nurse at my prick after it must have been clear to him that I was fully spent. I was tremendously sensitive and beginning to soften, and I cried out with the overstimulation, “Please, I’ve got nothing left, have mercy!” Only then did he relent.

I felt no lassitude after my orgasm; my blood was still singing with the pleasure I had received, and surely good manners dictated that I return the favour post-haste. I directed Watson to get up off his knees and return to his chair, and I assumed the same supplicating position before him as he had done before me.

“Now you must direct me in any way you see fit, and correct all my mistakes,” I insisted, before bending to my task.

Watson was already fully hard in his trousers, and he was more generously proportioned than I, so from the moment his prick sprang from his opened flies I knew that I had a formidable challenge ahead of me. But I had not one thought of shying away – though I admit I may have lingered longer on the kisses and long licks before attempting to fit him into my mouth.

I wished to nuzzle him, to bury my face in his scent, but I had not shaved since that morning, and so to avoid abrasion, restricted myself to lightly nosing and tonguing at him whilst I explored. At last, the head of his prick, red as claret, slipped between my lips, and I lashed it with my tongue, back and forth, over the fraenulum and across the slit, tasting the brackish fluid that had collected there.

Watson stroked my hair appreciatively, and caressed my cheeks and chin whilst murmuring endearments to me. I regretted that I had been too selfish and unaware to extend him these same courtesies when he had been seeing to me, and vowed to do better in the future.

I continued to extend my tongue as I took him deeper, beginning to struggle when my lips were halfway down his shaft. I did not think to use my hand to make up the difference; I simply fought my way down until I gagged.

“My darling, my dear,” Watson cooed, taking my face in his hands, lifting it up and away from himself. He bid me look up at him, and then leaned down to kiss me tenderly. It was a comforting forgiveness for my failure, but also astonishingly filthy, him wanting to put his mouth on me when it had a moment ago been pleasuring him. My soft, spent prick jumped when his tongue darted into my mouth.

“There’s no need to distress yourself so,” he said. He held himself around his shaft, then put his hand on my shoulder, though he hardly needed to guide me back to my task; I was eager to try again. He continued to hold his prick, to ensure I would not push myself past my limits of comfort, but also I think because it excited him to direct himself a little, to rub his glistening glans over my wet, swollen lips, before guiding it gently back between them – it excited _me_ , anyway.

I was enjoying a pleasant mouthful now, his succulent prick filling me, pulsing inside me, tiny bursts of his seed making their way across my tongue. I sucked more happily the more expressive he became, his whimpers turning to groans and his groans turning to words of encouragement, until at last, he heaved a great sigh and spent freely. I had not timed my swallowing correctly, so my mouth flooded and overflowed. I pulled away and gasped for air, just in time to see the final pulse of his spunk trickling from his slit. I immediately returned to my duties, lapping up what I had allowed to spill. Then I retreated and sat back on my heels, looking to Watson to see if I had done a suitable job.

He laughed at me.

“You’ve got a...” he half-explained, pointing first at me and then at his own upper lip. He continued to giggle as he tugged his handkerchief from his pocket and attempted to wipe away the pale, thin imitation of a moustache which marred my visage. “Oh, dear,” he said as he did so, but bent down and kissed me all the same when I was tidy again.

“I’ll do better next time,” I said, mortified.

“Nonsense, you are a treasure,” he replied, and kissed me some more.


	6. Chapter 6

Rather than go out for dinner, Watson suggested we stay in, and he would make us some simple but hearty fare: bangers and mash. “I haven’t attempted it since I was in the army, but I can’t imagine I’ve lost the knack.”

His suspicion was correct; he cooked up a fine meal even though I pestered him throughout the task, as I had not yet tired of being the constant centre of his attention. I decided mid-meal that I would have to match his culinary gesture with one of my own, so I promised him that for breakfast the following morning I would make crepes, using my maternal grandmother’s recipe. I did not mention that I had only seen the recipe once (I was certain that I had memorised it perfectly then), nor that I had never actually attempted to make crepes – but how difficult could it be, if one followed the directions?

I believe that the flour in Waugh’s kitchen must have been the wrong kind, for I struggled mightily with the task in the morning. Watson remained abed when I got up to cook, but he must have gotten suspicious of how long I was taking, for he wandered into the kitchen to check on my progress. I gazed forlornly down at what were, so far, my best efforts, and said, “It would seem we are having griddle cakes instead of crepes this morning. I trust you will not be too disappointed.” He laughed and gave me a patronising kiss on the cheek.

The slabs of griddle cake were thick and shapeless, but they tasted just fine, and afterwards, to cheer me, Watson reminded me that I still had the newspaper to read. The local journal’s agony column was not nearly as expansive or interesting at the one in the _Times_ , but I was in much better spirits after reading it.

I did not offer to do any more cooking on our holiday, but I decided then that I would not allow crepes to get the better of me. I would perfect my skills sight unseen, using Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen on the sly, until I could whip up something exceptionally good.

***

My arms were clasped around my folded legs and my chin rested on my knees whilst Watson washed my back. It was so wonderfully warm in the quiet, steamy room, and I closed my eyes and hummed happily when his scrubbing made my skin tingle, though I let in enough silence to listen to the sloshing of the water, seeing if I could tell by the echoes of the sound alone where individual drips and drops were landing.

When Watson was finished, he invited me to sit back and relax against him. I settled in, leaning my full weight on him. He put his arms around me and buried his face in the crook of my neck. I tilted my head up a little to accommodate him, and said, “I want you to bugger me.”

“I don’t know that this is the ideal venue for it,” he mumbled against my damp skin.

“I don’t mean here. But soon. You’ve been so good to me these past few days. You’ve shown me so much, and given me so much pleasure, and I want to give you that in return.”

With a few reassuring squeezes to my arms and shoulders, he replied, “If it’s really what you want.”

“I do want it. I want to make you feel good.” I slid down, and rested my head on his chest, shy about what I was about to say but needing to say it. “I want you to take me, to _conquer_ me. I want you to have the honour of being the only person who has had me in such a way.”

“But this would all be just for me? It wouldn’t be for you?”

I opened my eyes, and my mouth twisted in contemplation. The truth was, I had no idea if it would feel good for me, and cared so little whether it did that I had not given much thought to it. It seemed as though such an act ought to be painful, or at the very least uncomfortable, but then again, men risked the gallows for it, so there must have been something to it. Really, my only desire had been to give every part of myself to Watson, to prove that I was holding back nothing from him. I did not want to say this, so instead, I replied, “Am I not allowed to think only of you and your pleasure?”

“Well, I suppose,” he replied slowly, “but...”

His tone was oddly troubled, and I sat up and turned so I might look at his face. Was it pity I saw? Was what I was offering pitiful somehow?

But then he did something that seemed incongruous, considering his reaction to my proposal. He gave me some polite direction:

“I’d like you to kneel here, facing away from me. Put your arms on the rim of the tub, and you can rest your head on them.” He guided me as I went, encouraging me to lower my head, to present myself to him more brazenly. It would seem he had changed his mind about taking me up on my offer right here and now.

I felt him shifting behind me, and braced myself for whatever might come next. I anticipated a pressure, strain and discomfort, but also the satisfaction of knowing that I had given Watson everything.

Instead, I felt something hot and wet and quivering. His tongue.

I did not believe it at first, until I turned my head and confirmed beyond doubt where his face was. A moment later, the shock dissipated, and I was overwhelmed by the delicious sensation of it. I was affected to a ridiculous degree by such a minute touch, moaning at the slippery warmth of it and squirming to get more, if it was at all possible.

His velvety tongue alternated between agile flicking and long, slow licks up and down the ridge of my perineum. The wet sounds of his covetous mouth on me made me shiver all over. I could feel the fluttering of those particular muscles he was favouring with the touch of his mouth – I suppose I couldn’t help being shy about the attention. Without thinking I began to tug at my prick, and with that stimulation added to the maelstrom of sensation, I was spending in prolific streams in mere seconds.

I heard a rhythmic splashing, and looked down between my legs to see that Watson, too, was frigging himself. He moaned against me as he brought himself to his own crisis. The idea that doing that to me had so agitated him that he could not resist spending himself made my stomach flip, and one final pulse of seed trickled from my softening prick.

Now that we had dirtied the water, it was time to get out. Watson helped me up onto shaky legs. He stepped out first and retrieved one of the enormous bath sheets. Wrapping me up in it, and standing with his face close to mine as if to lecture me, he said, “That was to show you that that place is not just pleasurable for me to ‘use’ or ‘take.’ If done properly, it will be pleasurable for you as well. And I intend to do it properly.”

I looked away as my face heated up. What Watson had just been doing to me was not nearly so embarrassing as how effortlessly he had dismantled my mistaken assumptions. “Thank you,” I whispered, “I appreciate your teaching me.”

***

For all that our holiday had been a joy, I had difficulty getting a solid night’s sleep, as it was taking some getting used to, sharing a bed intimately with another person. The need to be close conflicted with the need for rest; several times throughout the night, Watson and I embraced, then separated when we became overheated, then clutched at each other again, as we drifted in and out of slumber. In the morning, I awoke once again lying entangled with Watson, who was handling my prick.

“Do you need to get up?” he asked. Meaning, had I awoken with the need to pass water. I had not.

I reached for his prick, stroking it to amuse myself just as much as to please him. Knowing however that soon I would be accommodating his instrument in a new way made me uneasy. “You are so thickly made,” I whispered reverently, and he understood why I was remarking on this.

“I’m going to teach your body not to be afraid of such girth.”

“How?” Despite my apprehension, I felt I could not be more ready to receive his love in the most intimate manner than I was at this moment, and I thought if I could get him to explain, I might lure him into demonstrating.

Watson broke away from our embrace just long enough to roll to the side of the bed and take something from the nightstand. He showed it to me: a tin of Vaseline he’d found in the bathroom. “This will ease the way,” he said. He nuzzled my neck, and promised, “I will go slowly, and treat you with the utmost care.”

Funnily enough, his soft reassurance made me randy as be damned, and wishing he would instead use all his strength to take me swiftly and roughly. I grasped his shoulder and pulled him halfway onto me, and soon found that convincing him to show me what he intended to do to me would not require as much patience or persistence as I’d initially assumed. He put first one knee, then the other between my legs, compelling me to spread them. Again, I felt so vulnerable, but I trusted him completely.

But then he made his way downwards, and began to fellate me. This was unexpected, though not unwelcome. He attended to me in a most leisurely manner, very fitting for a lazy morning. I was so relaxed, I didn’t want to lift a finger or open my mouth to encourage him, I just hummed a bit occasionally to communicate my appreciation.

I was so distracted by his perfect sucking, I almost didn’t notice him reaching for the tin of Vaseline. I did hear him open it, however, and saw him dip his finger into it. I tensed once again in anticipation, and the next thing I knew, that finger was touching my arsehole. I was fine with this, but apparently my body felt differently, clenching against his light caress.

“It’s alright,” I insisted. “Push it in me.”

Watson lifted himself just enough to say, “I’ll do nothing of the kind, until I feel I’m invited.” He then returned to both his tasks, sucking me and working his fingertip around my entrance.

It was difficult to think, which was always distressing to me, and compounded my nerves. But I took deep breaths, and concentrated on releasing the tension from every muscle in my body, and when Watson felt me relax there, he dipped his finger in to the first knuckle. I uttered only a little gasp, but then he slid it all the way up inside, and I cried out with how strange it felt. My naive body squeezed fitfully around this intruder, but Watson held his hand still, which allowed me to get accustomed to his presence. He continued to suck me, and the odd new sensation mingled with the familiar one.

It was only when I moaned softly, my first unambiguous noise of contentment, that he moved his finger inside me, in a particular way that delivered a bizarre, indescribable, but undeniable sensation of sharp pleasure deep inside. Each successive brush against it sent thrills through every fibre of my being, and I began to pant and groan in a most undignified manner. Luscious bolts of pleasure were shooting straight down my limbs, and that was in addition to the unearthly pulsing in the centre of me, as though my prick were being stroked from the inside.

I protested briefly but vociferously when Watson slid his finger back out of me, but he assured me it was only so he could prepare himself to put in a second. He replenished the Vaseline and made good on his promise, going slowly but steadily.

I was so dizzy with the thrill of being opened up and explored inside, I barely noticed that he was not sucking me anymore, but focusing entirely on postillioning me. This was fine, as it allowed me to concentrate fully on this new kind of pleasure. He massaged me all around inside, encouraging my body to relax enough to take even more. By now, I was not so much inhaling as sobbing, and not so much exhaling as moaning.

“Shall I go on like this,” Watson asked, “or shall we try a third finger?”

“A third,” I answered, because after a third, surely he would put his prick inside me, and I longed for that desperately.

Three fingers made me feel full and stretched; there was some discomfort, but I dared not tell him for fear that he would stop. I was happy to work through it to get to the pleasure. I knew I could accommodate more if he was patient with me. He’d barely had them in a minute when I whinged, “Watson, please put me out of my misery and give me your prick.”

“Not yet – not today.” He continued to draw his fingers in and out leisurely as he spoke. “I want to make sure that when I have you, it is completely pleasurable for you. You must show me that you can reach your crisis with no struggle while you have so much inside you.”

He did begin to frig me then, which was very helpful. But it was not just the steady friction that drove me towards my crisis. It was the surrender; I could feel myself succumbing utterly to his tender but firm handling of me – to my delight, I noticed that it was becoming the slightest bit less tender and more firm. I sensed a strong ejaculation building up in me, and as he continued to jab deeply and with perfect precision, the throbbing urgency in my core finally exploded into a soaring climax. My body was rendered helpless, unable to do anything but twitch and jerk, and as Watson continued to press on me from the inside, I was certain that my seed was not merely spurting but gushing from me.

When he judged my oversensitive whimpering too pathetic to prolong, Watson withdrew his fingers, leaving a gentle ache. The intensity of it lingered, in my shallow breaths and exhausted limbs. Watson loomed over me, pleased with his work but not having found his own finish yet.

“Will you turn over for me?” he asked, his voice faint through the haze of my euphoria. I allowed him to help me flop onto my belly, afterwards straining to turn my head to see what he would do. He wasted no time; grabbing one cheek of my arse and holding me open, he stroked himself over me, grunting like a beast. I watched his spend erupt from his prick, then felt the heat of it land on my still-quivering hole. It was the most depraved thing imaginable, and I loved it.

It was messy work, though; we were both in shambles now, to say nothing of the bedclothes. Red-faced and glowing with perspiration, Watson slumped beside me, just as he remarked, “We must get up. The day has only just begun.”

“Hm, yes,” I said, rolling over and surveying the scene. “We’ll need to wash up. Send the laundry out. And have some breakfast – I would demolish anything put in front of me right now.”

Watson looked me up and down and made a low rumbling sound, as though expressing a desire for a meal was the most erotically enticing thing one man could say to another. He pulled me close and rubbed my flat belly, heedless of its damp stickiness. “It so gratifies me that you’ve seen fit to develop a healthy appetite while we’ve been on holiday.” His voice was almost a growl. “I hope you bring it with you back to London.”

I flushed up and turned my face away. I think I was embarrassed that he found every aspect of me as exciting as I found every aspect of him. I had asked him to show me what it felt like to be the object of desire, but I had not learned to cope with having it be so. Perhaps I would get used to it…but a part of me hoped not.


	7. Chapter 7

To my dismay, Watson continued to insist that I needed more practise getting accustomed to accommodating his fingers before he would give me his prick. The following day when I asked, he declared that I must be sore from what he done the previous morning. “Tell me when you can sit down without feeling it,” he said. But when I told him so, he just gave me his fingers again.

He made no attempt to keep his prick away from my mouth, however, nor did he keep himself from mine. We both found a particular and wicked amusement in sucking each other when one of us was engaged – or pretending to be – in some other pastime: He would sneak between my thighs whilst I was absorbed in the morning paper, or I would ask him to read aloud to me once again from one of his novels, only this time seeing how long he could recite coherently whilst I was devoting myself to applying the most tantalising lingual pressure.

He also did not shy away from performing upon me that same peculiar act he had performed in the bath – he explained it was to help train my body to not shy away from him. So it was not a pleasureless few days, but at the same time, it was a torment, until he finally determined it was time to give me what I fervently craved. 

***

Watson’s decision that the time was right came not a moment too soon, for we had just two more days in our liminal seaside cottage, before we would be returning to London. But having judged this the appropriate night, he strove to make everything perfect: a fire had been laid to warm the bedroom so that we might go about undressed and above the covers, and he saw that we were both fed but not languid with being overfull, and not too tired from the day’s exploring. Watson declared that we would bathe together again, and then at last, _at last_ , we would indulge in that most intimate, most forbidden expression of love.

I was so uncontrollably libidinous with anticipation, I could not help but rub myself all over Watson in the bath, whilst I babbled about how badly I wanted him to have me, how honored I was to fall into his capable hands, how certain I was that his prick would feel like heaven in me.

When he laid me down on the bed, I immediately spread my legs wide for him, and my eagerness made him laugh. He proceeded, though, making it clear that he did intend to begin with us in this arrangement, him atop me, cradled between my thighs. “I want to see your face when I enter you,” he confessed.

Unable to resist the temptation, I immediately made the silliest face I could come up with, which made him laugh, though he admonished me, “If you’re going to be a menace, you’ll get nothing at all.”

I didn’t believe him, but I behaved myself anyway, keeping still whilst he opened the tin of Vaseline so that he might prepare me. By now, the feeling of his fingers inside me was familiar and welcome, though it also made me impatient and overeager. I made a show of lifting my hips and making greedy noises, proving to him that my body not only needed but _deserved_ an exquisite length of cock. I must have convinced him, for he at last set the tin aside so he could come forward on his knees. His cockstand swayed to and fro, and he caught me watching it raptly. He held it at the root, and said, “You like this?”

“I love it,” I said with a gulp. My own prick flexed with anticipation.

“You want this inside you very badly, don’t you?”

“Desperately.”

With his other hand, he lightly hefted his bollocks. “What about these? Do you want me to put my prick in you so deep that you feel these bouncing against your arse?”

“God, yes,” I panted, and lifted my legs to give him a better view of where I wanted him to be. The cool air touched my slickened entrance. “Please give it to me now.”

Watson applied the Vaseline to himself, unhurried, drawing it out because he knew I was watching in torment. At last he got his thighs underneath mine, snaking one arm under my knee to lift it higher and using the other to aim himself.

The head of his prick nuzzled at my entrance, lingering there though I knew it need not, as I could not have been more open and inviting; he was still just teasing me. I was beside myself with ardour, begging him to give me the whole column of it, to let me possess the thing I had so longed for. At last he consented to do so, sliding it snugly into me, and I dissolved in bliss.

I couldn’t understand why he had insisted on being able to see my face; as he sank his prick inside me, my eyes rolled back and I gasped open-mouthed like a landed fish, and I cannot imagine that looked the least bit alluring. But I couldn’t help it, I was out of control with excitement, feeling him finally push his prick up into me. It felt even better than his fingers had, so much smoother and fuller, and I knew it was better for him, as well, because his breath was coming in little sobs as I engulfed him.

When he passed over that exquisite spot inside me, my whole body seized with pleasure, and as I arched my back and lifted my hips, I fully seated him inside me. He was still, but my hips were restless, and their churning kept him moving gently inside me.

“Well, so this is what a prick feels like,” he said. “What do you think of it?”

Rather than answering with words, I placed a hand on the back of his neck and drew him down to me for a kiss. I knew that deep, wet kissing provoked him as much as it did me, and when I slid my tongue over his, I could feel, deep inside me, his prick jerking. I also knew that when he explored my mouth with the same fervour, he could feel my own minute contractions around him.

But this stimulation made me dizzy as the last of my inhibitions dissolved, and I could remain silent no longer. I broke the kiss to beg, “Watson, listen to me.”

He gazed intently at me, which made it difficult to say what I meant to say, so I averted my eyes before I told him, “There will never be another like you for me, so you must promise me that you will never leave me, that we’ll go on like this together, so long as we remain in this world.”

“My dear,” he whimpered, dropping his head to rest on my shoulder, and tucking his arms beneath me so that he could hold me. “You must know that I adore you like no other.” He laughed a little and said, “You must know it, if for no other reason than you have read my effusive prose in the _Strand_.”

I laughed too, at this. “I suppose yes, but I...just wanted to be certain.” I lifted my hips again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt what was going on, I’ve been waiting so long for it.”

Watson forgave me with a kiss on the cheek, then bent his knees and elbows to take a better stance, so he might deliver a series of solid, rhythmic thrusts. I confess I left him to it, raising my legs in the air and stretching my arms above my head, wishing only to accept pleasure, and trusting that he was taking a suitable portion of the same for himself whilst he worked.

Every stroke coaxed a noise from me, sometimes just a soft grunt, once in a while a shriek, when he decided to be particularly assertive with his prick in me. I had just enough presence of mind to understand how hard he was working, to admire the flex and pull of the muscles in his arms and belly as he strove to satisfy me. Nonetheless, I was also sufficiently delirious with pleasure to react with bafflement when he asked me, between huffing breaths, if I might like to try it some other way. “Watson,” I answered with all sincerity, “I’m afraid I’m fresh out of orifices.”

“I only meant in a different position,” he said, trying not to laugh.

“Oh! Well, I don’t see why not.”

I was in a hopeless state of arousal, and so did not appreciate the loss of him, but he assured me that we would soon find other voluptuous arrangements, which I would enjoy just as much, or even more, and that was both consolation and enticement. With his guidance, I rolled onto my front and then lifted myself into a hands-and-knees position. I had to spread my legs especially wide, as they were so much longer than his, and this made me feel even more open and empty. I understood then better than ever what he had meant when he had warned me that I must be willing to make myself vulnerable before him.

Kneeling behind me, Watson ran his hands over my flanks, making noises that seemed almost like appraisal, and then inserted a finger into me, as though I were a piece of livestock; it was unspeakably crude, and strangely exciting for being so. I cried out, “Oh, I feel like a beast in heat. Please get it back inside me this instant!”

For once, he heeded my request to stop teasing, no doubt because he was as taken by animal lust as I was. He entered me again, and I moaned to feel it slip so easily up me this time. He began with slow strokes, which went so deep that I howled with it, and he took this as encouragement to have me vigorously, pounding with such force that I could not move or speak or think. I lowered my head and chest to the bed, hoping to find relief in a change of position, not expecting that doing so would instead make his prick go deeper still. When the intensity became unbearable, I managed to shout enough and drag myself far enough forward to bring things to a brief halt. “ _Please_ ,” I gasped.

I did not need to say anything more. Watson withdrew, then draped himself over me, holding me tightly and kissing me all over my face. “I was too rough with you, I’m sorry.”

But I didn’t want to stop entirely. I was full of coiled energy and now that he was not in me I felt empty inside once again. I didn’t know how to articulate my desires, but my helpless groans and whimpers seemed to give Watson an idea. “How about if you ride a Saint George upon me,” he suggested, “and then you can set the pace.”

He laid on his back next to me and guided me up and over, so I was straddling him. He held my hip in one hand and his cockstand in the other, and slid it up and down my cleft several times before settling it in just the right spot and pushing the tip inside. He encouraged me to continue, to sit myself upon it, and doing it slowly felt wonderful. With his encouragement, I wiggled and rocked until I found just the right place for all of him, and then began to bounce a little. He ran his hands all over my chest and belly and thighs, saying how beautiful I was; this I was still a bit doubtful about, but it did not spoil my fun.

He turned out to be not so willing to relinquish complete control, because he continued to hold me and help me move. At my breathless request he squeezed my prick while I rode, but with his other hand he pushed on my hipbone with his thumb to nudge me back, or dug his fingertips into my arse to pull me forward. As it became clear that we were drawing near to a mutual glory he planted his feet on the bed and began to push upwards into me. It felt lovely, though, not too intense, and all along he continued to praise me. I have some doubts about how handsome I actually looked flailing about with my jaw hanging open, but to Watson I was apparently an absolute treasure.

He continued to frig me until I felt a shiver of inevitability, and I cried out shamelessly as I reached my crisis with a prick inside me, feeling so full and helpless and radiant as white-hot pleasure cascaded over me. He milked abundant, uneven jets of spunk from my jerking prick as I clenched around him, and just as I was beginning to settle down, he grabbed me around the waist with both hands, which sent a final orgasmic jolt through me. He shuddered beneath me as he spent up inside me, grunting with the effort of it.

He helped me remove him from myself and lie down without tumbling off the bed entirely from fatigue. I clutched at him as he got up from the bed, but he insisted I allow him, as he was only going to get the towel he’d hung by the fire. He dampened it in the washstand, and cleaned the both of us. I ceased my protesting, as we were indeed quite thoroughly smeared with each other’s sweat and spendings, and while it had felt deliciously filthy in the moment, now I preferred to be tidy again.

After all the intensity of our coupling, it was when he was washing me intimately that I became overwhelmed with emotion; he must have noticed the tightening of my throat, and the humidity of my gaze, for he asked what was the matter. I refused to open my mouth, for fear of letting loose a mortifying sob, but he understood anyway, and climbed back in bed beside me and held me tightly, rocking me back and forth a little and stroking my hair.

To be loved by a passionate man must be life’s most luxurious feast, perpetually served. What other felicity could equal it? Basking in the exhilarating tranquility of this amorous _denouement_ , I was unashamed when my tears fell upon his shoulder. Love was not a sentiment to be trifled with, I understood that now more than ever, but I knew that we could not have generated such a powerful communion of ecstasy if I had not given myself up to him entirely, and now we could not hope to sustain it if I became guarded again, retreating into my dispassionate carapace.

Even as I sank into the comfort of accepting that Watson now held my heart in his hands, tears came afresh when I remembered that we had only one more day in Folkestone, and then it would be time to catch the train home.

“Things will be very different when we return to London,” I said, wishing for reassurance, pressing my face against his chest.

“Perhaps,” he said, and his tone was light. “For one thing, you’ll have to learn to hold your noise.” At this, I laughed with embarrassment through my tears, and he gave me a little squeeze. “But when the criminal element cannot find it in themselves to offer you a real challenge, it will be much more fun for us to do this together, than for you to sulk in a torpor, will it not?”

“Sulking in a torpor has its own charms,” I insisted. Then I snuggled against him bodily and sighed, “But perhaps I will do it less.”


	8. Chapter 8

I followed the strand until the frolicking bathers and strollers thinned out and then were absent entirely. Here, the shore was overgrown with marram grass, and the sand was strewn with rocks and seaweed. I found an enormous chunk of driftwood, formerly a tree trunk, upon which to sit and fill my pipe, and whilst I smoked I contemplated the tide.

Never had I been one for being idle by the seashore. Bustling, crowded, grimy London was my home. There, I may have been one among millions, but I understood London, could manipulate its fine moving parts and feel in control as I went about in it. The ocean, though, chastened me, made me remember that I was insignificant, and could never begin to comprehend this world, much less change it.

But I think that I wanted to feel small just then; these past days I had come to believe that the whole world had changed, but soon it would be time to return to normal life, and I needed to reorient myself, and to once more think of the world as big and myself as small.

I smoked and ruminated in silence long enough for the sky to grow dim and the distant sound of the crowd to diminish, until only the cries of gulls pierced the dull roar of the ocean. I was so lost in thought, I did not notice Watson approach until he was nearly sitting by my side on the driftwood log.

“How did you find me?” I inquired, not minding that he had.

“I wandered down to the strand to do some thinking, myself, and I noticed a set of footprints going off into the hinterlands, and I followed them.”

“Hmm,” I said, and continued to smoke my pipe.

We enjoyed a comfortable silence for some time in the growing dark, and then Watson looked up, and pointed out to me the enormous array of stars visible, very few of which we ever got to see in London.

“Do you know any of the constellations?” he asked.

I replied, “Should I?”

Watson shared his knowledge with me, pointing out seemingly arbitrary patterns and telling me their names. While I did not consider the information worthy of storing in my brain-attic, I could appreciate the beauty of the stars, and Watson’s softly authoritative voice was an agreeable accompaniment.

He ended his astronomy lecture with a sigh. “We won’t see the stars like this for a long while, I suppose, after tonight.” I said nothing, and after a moment he continued. “Not that I am not looking forward to returning to London. But you were right, last night: it will be strange going back to our old lives now that there is something new between us. I feel like I am in a dream, and I’m about to wake up.”

“I don’t feel like that at all,” I said, and I could tell he was wounded, thinking me cold, so I elaborated: “I feel now that I have lived my whole life in a sort of twilight half-sleep of fear and solitude. You awakened me. Not here in Folkestone, I realise now, but the day we met. I will return to London with new eyes, not disoriented but refreshed and aware in a way I have never been previously.”

In the darkness, I let my arm brush my coat noisily as I moved it, so Watson could detect that I was placing my hand between him and myself. He placed his atop mine; it was pleasantly warm, in contrast to the cool night air.

But he also warned me, “We shall have to be discreet at home.”

“Naturally,” I agreed. Then I turned to face him. “But now that it is dark, and we must certainly be alone, with only your constellations for company, perhaps we could engage in one rash act of wanton exhibitionism?” I tilted my head to indicate what I wanted.

With only a little nervous hesitation, Watson obliged me, leaning close and touching his lips to mine, which warmed me all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You can visit berlynn-wohl.tumblr or @berlynnwohl on Twitter for more of this type of nonsense, including my writing that is not available on AO3. :)


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